Please Don't Make Me
by mazmko
Summary: Little Canada struggles to understand the forces that are driving his family apart; forces that start off in the form of America's bewildering aggression. Loosely based on the Seven Years' War (but I am not proficient in history - this is more about the characters). Reviews greatly appreciated!


**This is basically my first attempt to express my extreme (and I truly mean extreme) love for these characters in this way. There will be more chapters (as pitifully short as this one is!). Thank you infinitely to anyone who reads this and doesn't walk away thinking they've just wasted valuable minutes of their lives :) And if you do, please review so I can fix things! **

Matthew was happy to close his eyes; he didn't need to pay attention anymore. He didn't need to feel confused or betrayed. He didn't need to remember he had a black eye and a few nasty scrapes. He could just feel safe. He knew he was safe in his brother's arms, on a small chair in a bright room that overlooked a quiet and peaceful world. The soft fur of his favorite stuffed animal – a large polar bear named Kumajirou, always kept in pristine condition – was pressed up against his chin and mouth, slightly damp from recent tears. It smelled sweet. He could feel his brother's soft breath on the top of his head, singing a quiet song in French. Matthew loved the sound of French. It transported him to a place where gallantry and beauty held sway. Where nothing like the events of the morning would ever take place. He subtly curled up a little tighter in his brother's arms at the thought. _Will I have to see it again? That look in his eyes? _

Before Matthew could notice, the singing had stopped.

"Are you cold, Matthew? You're strangling that poor little bear."

The boy's eyes fluttered open. He looked up to catch his brother's gaze. Francis' eyes were playful and warm before anything else. But Matthew read compassion and anxiety in them as well.

"N-no, I'm fine."

There was a pause.

"As you say, _mon cher_."

Matthew closed his eyes again. But it was too late. Guilt began to assault him. He wanted so badly not to need such pampering, yet he could not overcome his desire to be held – comforted. Was he so weak? After all, it had just been a small fight with Alfred. The two of them had never really gotten along … never really understood one another. Why did it have to matter so much?

He didn't remember what he had said to set Alfred off, but Matthew did tend to have a sharp tongue, and though Alfred didn't always respond to his sarcasm, there were times when he could tell his brother was quite wounded. It was different this time, though. Alfred had instantly come down on him with his fists. And it wasn't chaotic, it wasn't loss of control. As Matthew struggled to fend him off, he realized that Alfred's attack was organized and clear-headed. It scared him, and in the end he burst into angry tears. When Alfred saw this, he stopped his offensive. Matthew could hear his rapid breath as he stood a few feet away, and he gazed up at him with a pained expression. He didn't like the look that met his.

"I did try, you know," Matthew heard his own voice as merely the voice of a child, not a new nation, as he snapped back into the present. "I wasn't scared of him. I just … I didn't want to …"

"Afraid you might kill him?" Francis' tone was amused. "Yes, he should have thought of that himself."

Matthew felt his cheeks get hot. "That's not what I meant."

"Then please, tell me what you meant," Francis prodded gently. He was always telling his little brother to be honest, speak louder, and stop saying "never mind". He found much of what Matthew had to say very amusing and interesting. How long it would be before Matthew attempted to listen to _him_ was another matter. Matthew's meekness was a trait Francis was still trying to understand.

"It just made me mad … that's all."

Another pause.

"Mad … that that obnoxious brother of yours would try to hurt you?"

Matthew sighed into Kumajirou's fur. "No."

"Then what is it?"

Silence. It was usually like this. It was hard to get information out of Matthew.

"Are you mad because he managed to ruin your lovely curls?" Francis toyed with one of them with his fingers.

"No! Of course not!" Matthew blushed.

Francis feigned surprise. "Do not scoff at a fierce love of beauty, _mon cher_! Beauty has caused many wars, just ask Heracles. Besides, it took me long enough to brush it out in the first place, so perhaps _I_ should be mad at that miscreant."

"You're always mad at him, but that's because of England," Matthew mumbled. He had taken to calling Arthur and Francis by their official titles. It just felt more appropriate to him, somehow. "And Alfred and I are not in a war."

Francis' smile faded. "Of course not, Matthew, of course not. But you must know that it is … normal for brothers to disagree. You are both young, and that little hot-head is very impulsive."

"It's not that either!" Matthew buried his entire face into Kumajirou, trying to sort out his thoughts in the gentle darkness.

Francis smiled quietly and resumed his soft humming, refusing to release Matthew's curl. He slowly spun it one way, and then the other, as it if was a clock to measure the moments until Matthew's response.

"It's because …"

His voice was so muffled that it was hard to hear.

"… he seemed … _happy_."

Francis' voice was gentle.

"Happy to hurt you, Matthew?"

For the last time, Matthew groaned in frustration, "_No_! Happy when he realized … I couldn't … beat him."

Francis paused, his lips pursed. He looked down at the young blonde nation, still burying his face in the soft white polar bear. Francis caught his breath. The look on Matthew's face, even with his black eye, resonated in his memory. The boy looked so confused. So full of righteous anger. His feelings were youthful, wholesome, and heartbreaking. Francis knew how he must answer him. He knew what he must tell his little brother. Yet even as he pondered the words he would use, he felt a strange sense of envy toward Matthew. What did it feel like to be righteously angry, again? What did it feel like to be innocent? _Ah, it cannot be so wonderful. _He thought. _There is no truth in it. There is no meaning. _

"Matthew," his voice was elegant, as if he were trying to mask the true nature of his words, "It is not pleasant, but it is true. Victory brings pleasure."

Matthew refused to raise his head.

"Come now – you know this already, _mon cher_. Just because Alfred was glad he didn't lose the fight, it doesn't mean he hates you or wanted to hurt you. Winning is the natural desire of us all." Even as the words fell from his lips, he could feel Matthew tense up.

"This isn't about winning."

"Isn't it, Matthew? It was just a fight – you said that yourself."

"Francis."

Matthew looked up at last, pulling away from Kumajirou. His eyes had lost their pained gleam and looked cold and stubborn.

"He's my brother. How can he want to beat me if we're … on the same side? Why does he need to know he can beat me if we're not going to fight? Why does he want me to see my own weakness?" Matthew's voice slowly crept up in volume, but it never cracked. He didn't blink back any tears. He just stared up at his brother, cheeks slightly flushed and brows slightly furrowed.

"Are we still allies?" he said at last, quieting down a bit.

There was a pause. A pause filled with the warm sunshine and the gentle voices of birds and the slow ticking of a clock and the last hope of Matthew's youth.

"Allies?" Francis felt his jaw clench slightly.

_You are too young to know the true weight of that word. Without a promise – without a bind – without a ball and chain – you cannot trust another nation. And even then, what is a promise but a temporary respite? The true desires of all your "allies", Matthew, will always win over their professed friendship with you. The trick is … _"Matthew, listen to me," he pulled the young nation closer to his chest, despite how rigid and closed-off he had become, "Alfred will always be your brother. He will never be anything less, but you can't always expect him to be anything more."

Matthew's gaze became a glare. "What does that mean, anything more?"

"Ah, Matthew," Francis sighed. This wasn't the time. There was too much happiness that Matthew could still enjoy before he realized the fickle nature of his own family. There were too many days of peace and hope left. Best be vague and put his fears to rest. "Everyone can be selfish. That is all I mean. You cannot always rely on those around you simply because we are all imperfect. Even if we do love you. So you must focus on the path you want to follow, and make sure you are prepared to be strong on your own."

Matthew blinked. "But ... I don't want to be alone yet," he said in almost a whisper.

"I know," Francis grinned. "But that mean's you will be around imperfect people. So just try to forgive the little rebel." Matthew's face grew blank and sullen, making him look more like a reluctant child than a young nation. Francis bit back a laugh. "_I_ will always be here for you, _petit frère_. There are beautiful things ahead of you. Don't let a little spat trouble you."

He watched, almost with baited breath, to see if Matthew would be contented with his answer. There was another moment of silence. Matthew gave a sort of small sigh. He looked up at his brother.

"I forgot my glasses. They're still outside."

"Let me fetch them for you," Francis felt relief rush through him. He bent down and kissed Matthew's forehead. "Why don't you get a book and relax in this beautiful sunshine? I'm sure England will be calling us for tea soon."

"I don't like tea."

Francis placed a hand to his chest dramatically. "Ah! How wonderfully French you are, Matthew!"


End file.
